


Sherlock Holmes Returns

by BenedictCumberwumberbatch



Series: Sherlock Hurt/Angst [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Aslyum, Crime Scene, Death, Drug Abuse, Gen, Heroin, Isolation, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock returns, Straight Jacket Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenedictCumberwumberbatch/pseuds/BenedictCumberwumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has been missing for weeks, and when a body is found mangled and amputated with blonde hair sticking over the edge of the body bag, will Sherlock find the will to open this case and the body bag? Or will he stop himself from opening up pain and torment for everyone he knows, including himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death Alive, Dying Again.

**Author's Note:**

> Written a long time ago and originally posted on my twitter account, make sure you're prepared for some serious angst and pain....  
> (Good luck)

Death alive. Dying again.  
  
Those two phrases, ingrained in Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s mind that was like a palace, now more like a cluster of thoughts. Two clustered, too much information that could cloud his vision.  
  
Death alive. Dying again.  
  
Why was it that those words annoyed him, confused him, made him wonder. He had to think. Always thinking. This case, it was different. He hadn’t seen the body and it already confused him. Lestrade had said that it would be best for Sherlock not to see the small, mangled body.  
  
That mangled body. Covered with a red blanket, tufts of blonde hair showing from above it.   
  
Of course Sherlock wouldn’t ever look. Looking would only confirm the fears that indulged him in hope. Lestrade had looked. Ms Hudson had looked. Everyone but Sherlock had looked.  
  
Sherlock didn’t need to look. Looking just caused him to be apprehensive. He was never apprehensive. That wasn’t who he was. He would just leave it.  
  
Of course, this was the first time Sherlock was ‘back’. It had been two years, two years of hiding away from everyone, waiting for anything and everything. He was waiting for those he associated himself with to find him. But they didn’t, so it was yesterday, that Sherlock decided to find himself. To prove to the world that he wasn’t dead.  
  
That was easy enough. All he had to do was walk into Baker Street and declare himself home and demand tea. But it didn’t work that way.   
  
Baker Street was up for rental again. It was empty, deserted, abandoned. Ms Hudson was still there, so after Sherlock saw her and was cosseted by her he simply asked. Where that man, his roommate, his doctor, his friend was.  
  
She didn’t know. Ms Hudson didn’t know. Then he demanded that Lestrade told him, then Mycroft, then he even threatened Anderson. But none of them knew.  
  
Then he remembered those stories his roommate used to say. About how he was in love with a woman, a rich woman whom they had solved many a case for, but idea that was fruitless, she didn’t know where John was.  
  
That’s when the police called in the body covered in a red blanket with blonde tufts of hair peeking from beneath.  
  
Death alive. Dying again.  
  
That’s how Sherlock felt when he reached slowly, cautiously for the blanket. The red, silky blanket. He had died, he was alive. But he felt as if he was dying again. And again. And again.  
  
Then he flung the blanket off and his fears were matched with the harsh reality of the situation. There stood a man, who was 5’6” and not a centimetre taller. His chocolate brown eyes glazed over, one bullet to the head.  
  
But he was not John. He was not Sherlock’s Doctor John Watson. Not the flatmate, roommate that Sherlock knew. He was just a corpse. A cadaver. A body without a soul. He was dead.  
  
But then, as Sherlock had deemed, it wasn’t John. It was a message. From the one soul he had hoped never to see again, the one person he didn’t need to, no, didn’t want to see again.  
  
Moriarty.  
  
Then, next to the body laid a small package, with ‘Sherly’ written on it. This only caused Sherlock to frown heavily as he stood up, studying the package carefully as he opened it slowly. Then, inside, lined in red was a message. A violin string. A violin string and, what caused Sherlock to gag for the first time in his life, a end of a finger. Severed half way through a nerve. Sherlock could feel the pain that the owner had been through as it had taken. Excruciatingly painful.   
  
But it didn’t take two seconds for Sherlock to work out who ‘owned’ this finger tip. And this made him angry. So very angry. Now all he could do was do what he did best. Deduce, Detect and Demand. Demand John to be taken back.  
  
Or find him. Sherlock would find him. No matter what he would do.  
  
  
Death alive. Dying no more.


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The body bag has been opened, but is it what Sherlock expected...?

Sherlock would find him. No matter what he would do.  
  
That was how Sherlock planned to do it. Find John, any means necessary. He called his homeless network to look out for Moriarty, Sebastian or John. To look for anything that could lead to where John was.  
  
Then a week passed, no sign. Frustration started to grow inside when eventually, there was another package. Another small, blood red package. This just caused suspicion to grow.  
  
Sherlock just sat there, leaning back in his arm chair simply staring at the package. Curiosity growing, though conclusions spreading. What was it? Something told him that Jim wasn’t so stupid as to send another body part to Sherlock, but another part of him told him that Jim was exactly that clever. That smart.  
  
Messages then started flooding in. Texts from Jim, teasing Sherlock’s curious mind. Was Sherlock going to open that package? That stupid, small package.  
  
Then he lifted it up with one hand, balanced on his palm of his hand as he studied it. It was surprisingly heavy and he frowned.  
  
It wasn’t a body part. Surely not. But that’s what Sherlock wanted to think, for once, emotions where getting in the way of his case. That would be his downfall, not that Sherlock knew that.   
  
But Moriarty did.  
  
Sherlock eventually succumbed to inquisitiveness and curiously opened the box.  
  
There was a flash of light. A loud explosive sound, smoke pouring from the box.  
  
Game Over.  
  
It was game over for Sherlock. His little bit of consciousness he had left heard some police engines, followed by an ambulance. Then screams. Screams of Ms Hudson.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Then another text message. But this time Sherlock couldn’t read it.   
  
Then Darkness.  
  
That was it, Darkness for the next couple days, weeks. Waking up in a hospital room? No. That would be too obvious. Jim wouldn’t waste an opportunity like that, so when Sherlock did wake up, it was in a small room. A small white, enclosed room.   
  
A almost scary room. Mirrors surrounding him constantly, causing Sherlock to frown and panic inside.  
  
Then the door opened and in walked, Jim. No. It wasn’t Jim. It was John. John, looking reasonably well, but looking at Sherlock with cold eyes. Cold piercing eyes.  
  
Sherlock blinked and smiled.   
  
“John!” He exclaimed. “You’re here! Quick! Let me out!”   
  
But John shook his head. Sadly? No. Not sadly. He just shook his head and sat down next to Sherlock and whispered some apologetic statements in his ear as he got a syringe out and slowly pushed a liquid which resembled herorin into Sherlock.  
  
Then Jim walked in. Jim. Sherlock would kill Jim. But as he struggled to stand up, he collapsed. His right leg. Sherlock looked down at it.  
  
It was numb. Then Sherlock saw a clamp like feature tightened around his leg, stopping the blood flow to it.   
  
The next few minutes blurred passed Sherlock as Jim simply got out his small hand gun and hit Sherlock round the head multiple times using the end of it, letting the blood from his head drip to the pure white floors, now dirtied with a rich red.  
  
Red.  
  
Everything was red to Sherlock.  
  
John was curled up in the corner of the room, the syringe thrown across the room, the herorin kicking in. The hallucinations.  
  
Red dripping across the room, his eyes dilating and Sherlock’s pulse rising. Then he saw Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson all crowding round him. Laughing. Sherlock panicked and frowned.  
  
He had been clean for nearly four years. He had forgotten how awful the delusions, hallucinations could be. Then more blood and screaming.   
  
Screams that he had heard earlier. He could no longer feel the whacks round the head that Jim was delivering to him.  
  
Then he was out. Cold again, lying on the floor.  
  
But he could still smell the thick stench of blood in the room. He could still hear the screams, the laughter from his loved ones, his friends.  
  
Then, as he opened his eyes, he saw John. Lying there. Dead. Decapitated, blood seeping towards him, as if a tidal way of blood.  
  
Sherlock was too gone to realise it wasn’t real. All he could see is blood.  
  
Game Over, Sherlock Holmes.  
  
He would have to fight to get out of this.


	3. Game over, Sherlock Holmes

Game Over, Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  
He would have to fight to get out of this. Fight, fight , fight.   
  
Isn’t that what Sherlock does best? Fighting with everyone he knew. But this was a different fight. One he would have to fight against himself. His mind, burning, killing him slowly from the inside.  
  
Then there was the thought of death.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t die. That wasn’t how he ‘worked’. He never lost. He never really died. Even after that fall, he fell so fast. So quickly, even then he wasn’t dead. Not really.  
  
He could barely open his eyes as he tried to glance at John again, to conform his fears, his doubts, his pain that shot through him and hit him hard in the chest, like being kicked, hard.  
  
And there, as his biggest doubts were confirmed, was John. Dead, decapitated, disappearing from Sherlock’s life.  
  
But there was also those who he believed were his friends. Laughing, at him. Trills, screams, grins and smirks all in his direction.   
  
For the first time in his, Sherlock Holmes’ life, he felt small.   
  
Then the stench of blood started to drown him, causing him to panic, to seek help. Then Sherlock saw it. That one key pivot in this situation.  
  
He ignored the fact that his leg had been bonded, tied down, was useless. That wasn’t his concern now.   
  
The gun was.  
  
Game Over? Sherlock Holmes thought not.  
  
He wasn’t going to give up now. Not now anyway, he was sure of it.  
  
Sherlock ignored the hallucinations that flew in his direction as he crawled, dragged himself to the gun.   
  
Of course, Jim wasn’t that stupid as to leave the gun loaded. Jim was a genius, or so he thought. But he never considered what, by drugging Sherlock, making him believe John was dead would do.  
  
But John wasn’t dead. John was alive. Not even in that room anymore, the mirrors just causing Sherlock to see himself, see the blood and get confused.  
  
A confused Sherlock was a sight to be seen that would amuse anyone. Though a confused and angry Sherlock was not one to be reckoned with.   
  
He grabbed the small, hard, metallic gun and balanced it in his hands, carefully gently, feeling the weight of it in his hands.  
  
Then he threw it.  
  
With all his might he threw it, where he believed Jim to be. But the room was empty apart from himself and instead, it hit a mirror. The shattering fragments then fell, slowly, peacefully as if they were snowflakes, indulging themselves in the pools of blood beneath them, turning a perfect mirror image of Sherlock’s reflection into a broken shard.  
  
Millions of broken shards. Too many to count. His image was ruined.  
  
That’s when the pounding at the door started to happen. One pound. Then two. He heard voices. Knocking sounds. Screams again.  
  
Then Lestrade’s voice. Then a police officer’s voice. Then finally John’s voice.  
  
John’s soothing, calm voice.   
  
Sherlock may have calmed down by hearing John’s voice. But no, he was so pent on believing that John was dead, that it made him angry.  
  
Angry, yelling at the door. Telling them to leave. His delusion had caused him to make another.  
  
The delusion of hope had been shattered.   
  
Then the door opened. The next few minutes a blur. Men capturing Sherlock, restraining him as if he were a criminal. Sherlock struggled, obviously, then fell still, silent when he saw John.  
  
He believed John would rescue him from this, ‘integrity’ that the men were putting Sherlock through.   
  
He was wrong. So very wrong.  
  
Months passed then, years maybe. Sherlock didn’t know. Sherlock didn’t seem to care.  
  
He was left, alone. Rehabilitated, that’s what Mycroft claimed.   
  
Mycroft claimed that John never went missing. That he was always at 221b Baker Street. That there never was an explosion that gave Moriarty the ‘clearance’ to steal Sherlock away and torture him.  
  
That John never gave him heroin, that Sherlock was never beaten by Jim,  
  
Moriarty was still dead.   
  
John was still to marry Mary Mortsan.   
  
Sherlock was still meant to be dead. It had only been two years since he fell.  
  
Two years.  
  
That they found Sherlock, in an asylum in Cornwall. That he had only just been taken in when they got him.   
  
He had nearly OD’d on heroin. That he had gone back. An addict again.   
  
Sherlock would never leave, not really.  
  
He had broken the law. Again.   
  
Then a voice cooed, echoed in the back of Sherlock’s head.  
  
That’s when Sherlock realised.  
  
Drugs had been his outsource. And now, after two years of abuse, of taking Heroin and cocaine precariously, Sherlock was done.   
  
Schizophrenic. That’s his first conclusion.  
  
He would always have that voice in his head. Persuading him that John was dead. That he was still with Jim Moriarty, that this in fact was the delusion. That everything else was real.  
  
But Sherlock always trusted his eyes.  
  
Until he saw where he was.  
  
Mirrors, everywhere.


	4. Mirrors, Mirrors, Everywhere

Mirrors, everywhere. Mirrors that reflected Sherlock throughout the room. Reflecting a torn, skinny, raggedy man.  
  
A man with what seemed like no soul. A tired Sherlock Holmes. The once great detective, brought down by self pity. Self loathing.   
  
By drugs.  
  
But that was just what Sherlock Holmes was now. Not the great detective that everyone wanted to be, everyone wanted to meet. Not the man who had everything, John, Lestrade, Ms Hudson. All he had now was himself. Himself and that voice.  
  
Oh yes. That voice that cooed to him in the darkness when the lights were out. The voice that told him that people were watching him.  
  
Not that Sherlock ever paid any attention to the voice. No. As a matter in fact, he felt it was a bit like Anderson. Annoying and never did really any good.  
  
Weeks ticked by. Madness seeping into Sherlock’s systems once again.   
  
As normal, he rejected food. Drinks. Anything that a basic human may request.  
  
He demanded his violin. To play. The nurses thought him mad, again.  
  
Then one night. One distressing night, whilst Sherlock was thinking. Thinking, obviously of things to be thought about. Such as how to get out of that cell, how to get back to 221b and how to regain his name as the great detective he was, there was a knock.  
  
Four knocks. Impending doom.   
  
No.   
  
Not impending doom.  
  
There stood; 

  
Jim Moriarty.  
  
That made Sherlock laugh out loud, once. Jim Moriarty, in an asylum. Sherlock thought he’d never see the day.  
  
Then he realised.   
  
Moriarty wasn’t here because he had been admitted. If he was, he wouldn’t have Sebastian Moran or Irene Adler by his sides.  
  
No. This was more of a social visit.  
  
But social visits aren’t what Sherlock’s permitted. So he sat down, a small smirk playing across his face as he looked up at Jim. The voice in his head telling him that this was it. This was Game Over for Sherlock Holmes.  
  
But it wasn’t. Sherlock could see behind Moriarty’s back.   
  
The mirrors played to his advantage. Showing the small, water pistol that stood behind Jim. The hand gun that was only half-loaded by Moran and the small 22 magnum mini revolver behind Irene.   
  
“Hello Sherly. I’ve heard-“ Jim said with a smug grin on his face, the ‘d’ lingering as he talked.  
  
“I’ve heard that you’ve been dreaming about me Sherly. I’m intrigued to know what happened in these dreams.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. No way was he telling Moriarty what he saw. What he felt. What he heard.  
  
“I’m waiting Sherlock.”   
  
Jim snapped. He was getting inpatient now.  
  
“Do I need leverage Sherlock? Is that what you want?”   
  
He glared and snapped his finger, addressing Sebastian, or Irene, either one of them as he continued to stare at Sherlock intently.  
  
“Bring Dr Watson in. Now”  
  
“Oh, Yes Sherly. I have John. And I felt, that, as a reward for you being let out-“ Jim stated, as Sebastian brought John in swiftly.  
  
“That we should, re-inact the dream. Isn’t that a good idea Sherly? I think it is.”  
  
That’s when Sherlock saw the look on John’s face. Fear. An army doctor, scared. Why would he be scared? John had faced worse.   
  
But there was a difference here.  
  
Both John and Moriarty knew that someone was going to die today. Someone. But whom?  
  
The voice then spitted in Sherlock’s head. Hissed in his head, like a snake, a serpent hissing venom.  
  
“It’s over Sherlock.” The voice hissed, making Sherlock twitch his head a little, standing up and wanting to throttle Moriarty, but the straight jacket restraining him.  
  
“Game Over Sherlock Holmes. You finally lost.”  
  
This time the voice hissed in harmony with other voices.   
  
Mycroft’s voice, Lestrade’s voice, Mrs Hudson’s voice, Molly’s voice.   
  
They all hissed at Sherlock. Telling him that it was over.  
  
Then the gun rose.  
  
And a sharp, bloody pain in Sherlock’s chest, a bloody rose seeping through his pure, white straight Jacket.  
  
Game Over Mr Holmes.


	5. Darkness

Darkness.  
  
That is what scares people.   
  
Not death. It’s the darkness after death. The not knowing. Of course, some believe that you go to heaven after death, hell or get reincarnated. Everyone has their own beliefs.  
  
But not Sherlock Holmes.  
  
He just saw the darkness that flooded over him.  
  
The pain that stung his chest as he tried to grasp for the life that kept him up. The pain that slowly drained into Sherlock’s head.  
  
The flower, Rose petals of blood seeped over that straight jacket that bound Sherlock. Kept him close and safe.  
  
That was ironic. The safety implicated by having a straight jacket. A jacket to keep you safe, but also prevents you from having freedom. Freedom that the wearer will never have again.  
  
But Sherlock didn’t have time to think about freedom. Or lack of freedom.  
  
He had to think about life.  
  
He had to look at the John in front of him. He who had eyes glazed over like marbles. Tired eyes. Lonely eyes.  
  
Then there was Jim.  
  
Laughing there. Standing there.  
  
And what Mycroft may class as the perfect soldier. Sebastian Moran, standing there. To attention. Waiting for further orders.  
  
And Irene. Irene Adler. ‘The Woman’. The woman that Sherlock saved. Standing there with a small smirk on her face.  
  
Then blood. Again.  
  
The rose petal consuming Sherlock. The roses growing, spreading over the no-longer pure straight jacket.   
  
The mirrors amplifying everything.  
  
Then the smirks and laughs.  
  
Game Over Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Again and again.  
  
Voices that teased Sherlock in the night.   
  
Night?  
  
It surely couldn’t be night now.  
  
It must have felt that hours, months, years had passed.  
  
But it had only been five minutes.  
  
Five minutes of hell. Of agony. Of dying over and over.  
  
Another gun shot.  
  
Another rose of blood seeping through Sherlock’s straight jacket.  
  
A secret garden appearing on Sherlock’s chest.  
  
Sherlock fell back onto the cold, metal bed. Leaning back on the mirrors that reflected the blood.  
  
Blood.   
  
Black blood.  
  
The blood turning a nasty shade of ebony.   
  
The darkness seeping in again. Drowning Sherlock in darkness.   
  
This pain, tearing bits of Sherlock’s memory and sanity out of himself.  
  
Sherlock had to keep his mind focused on one thing. Focused.  
  
Sherlock focused on everything that he had done in the past two years. Everything that the hallucinations had fed him. Everything that felt so real. The pain of losing John, that pain that was so lifelike, brining tears of fire, stinging him to Sherlock’s eyes. The memories of everyone laughing. Everyone laughing at Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Then Sherlock remembered how he had been classed a ‘fraud’ and how he fell.  
  
That feeling of falling.   
  
It’s nothing compared to the feeling of imminent doom. The feeling of drowning in his own tears.  
  
Drowning in everything that kept him up. Drowning in the ebony blood that surrounded him.  
  
Then there was Jim’s smirk, smug face.   
  
That’s the last thing that Sherlock could see.  
  
Sherlock Holme’s death took hours.   
  
John told people Sherlock put up a fight.  
  
But everyone knows that he couldn’t have.  
  
Not in that condition, Sherlock Holmes would never have put up a fight.  
  
All Sherlock can see is the darkness now. His life playing over and over again. Until Sherlock’s life has been ran over so many times it never matters any more.  
  
It’s just another piece of the puzzle that never got solved.  
  
Those puzzle pieces.   
  
John.  
  
Lestrade.  
  
Mycroft.  
  
Molly.  
  
Mrs Hudson.  
  
Jim Moriarty.  
  
Puzzle pieces that completed Sherlock’s life. No matter how much he loathed or disliked some of them. They made Sherlock Holmes who he was. And that’s all that mattered to him.  
  
But he was no longer there.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was forgotten quickly.  
  
John married Mary Mortsan.  
  
Mrs Hudson found new tenants after John moved out.  
  
Lestrade finally found out to be a good Detective Inspector himself without relying on others.  
  
Mycroft resigned from his position in the government after causing one too many wars.  
  
  
Molly finally found love and married that man. Her job still taking over her life though.  
  
And Jim Moriarty.  
  
Jim Moriarty continued to cause havoc. For a little while, but after his cases stopped being solved. People just gave up.  
  
A year after Sherlock Holmes died, Jim Moriarty finally gave up.

  
  
Jim Moriarty finally died.

  
  
And Sherlock Holmes.

  
  
Sherlock Holmes, the once great detective who was brought down by schizophrenia and passed away in a secure unit, in an asylum in a mirrored cage.

  
  
Sherlock Holmes was still dead. 

  
  
Still buried 6feet under.

  
  
His grave slowly rotting away.

  
  
All he was a detective. Just a detective.

  
  
A dead sociopath.

  
  
Sherlock Holmes. Finally dead.

 

 

  
  
Death Alive. Dying again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you all 'enjoyed' this! And, yeah.... I wrote this before series 3 (and I probably wrote this on another fanfiction website, but I prefer this ones layout and everything so much more...). So I was pretty surprised when I saw Moriarty in an asylum, in Sherlock's mind, like in my story (I may have fangirled a little teeny weeny bit)....


End file.
